


It's All Brand New

by midnightwhistleberries



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Famous Louis, Football Player Louis, I really like italics ok, M/M, Non-Famous Harry, University Student Harry, greg horan is my favorite and he is the best boss ever, harry’s not an English major :O
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-10 00:12:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2003373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightwhistleberries/pseuds/midnightwhistleberries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Harry,” Louis intones emphatically, “literally everyone in the U.K. has known that I’m openly bisexual since 2011.”</i>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <i>“’Cept you, I guess,” supplies Niall. </i>
</p><p>In which Harry studies engineering, loves Madonna, and can't tell if Louis likes him or just keeps coming back to the record store because he's some sort of musical hoarder. Louis is famous, Harry has no idea, communication issues are rampant and fluffy pining ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's All Brand New

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anyadisee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anyadisee/gifts).



> To my prompter: I really hope you love it, I tried to get all the little details you wanted so here is my baby for you! *sets free*
> 
> Huge thank yous to M & C, my beautiful multifandom cheerleader BFFs and last minute betas without complaint.
> 
> Title borrowed from "Crazy For You" by Madonna. Fic playlist coming after the author reveal!

 

Harry finds new music when he walks from class to class. He supposes he’s lucky that he’s at a big enough university to actually be able to use each minute of his commute for something useful, but in reality the only thing he despises about the industrial engineering major is that every single one of his major related courses and labs is at the far corner of campus, past every other science building, _across the street_ , and usually in a building that most definitely hasn’t been renovated since 1972. Or 1872. They are old and smell of despair and major changes.

 

On this particular Monday, Harry has to leave for his 8AM Statics class at 7:30, because it takes him at least twenty minutes to get to the lecture hall from his dorm even when there aren’t downpours in the morning. His inconvenient, life-ruiningly awful schedule is just accentuated by his roommate Liam’s, who doesn’t have any Tuesday/Thursday classes, and doesn’t have lecture until 10:10 the rest of the week. Harry already has some biases against the Sports Management majors, and as lovely as he is, Liam doesn’t help the cause much. So instead of sleeping in alarm-free like his roommate, every morning for Harry is a scrambling crapshoot in the dark to select his outfit of the day, after completing his daily routine of wake up, sprint, pee, brush teeth, sprint, get dressed, and unplug his charging iPod so he’d have the new music he syncs every night.

 

His musical to-do list is extensive today, as Harry hasn’t even begun to put together the playlist for his shift later in the afternoon. Flexible hours and street cred aside, the absolute best part of working at Craic & Shake Records is that whoever is on for each shift has total control of the music at the store, and most of the time, the person working is Harry. The only time his boss, Greg, has ever vetoed a song selection was when Harry, under some sort of cosmic influence, thought that _Wham Rap!_ was just ironic - really, they intended for it to be that hilariously awful. Now, though, the 80s pop anthems were to be set aside, as Harry still hasn’t listened to the not so new The Naked and Famous record, the Holychild EP he read a good review of last night, and the early release of Bleachers’ debut Greg had managed to get delivered to the store a week early. Slight nepotism aside, it would’ve been Harry’s dream job even if he wasn’t best friends with Greg’s younger brother Niall. Niall is one hundred percent the Industrial Engineering department’s most raucous drunk, and one hundred percent Harry’s favorite person he met in his first year at university. Somehow housing had screwed them over and their roommate request didn’t go through, but that doesn’t stop Niall from appearing in Harry and Liam’s dorm without a key, let alone without warning, almost every day. It’s still beyond Harry how Niall managed to befriend every single member of their residence hall security and convince them to let him up without being signed in.

 

Finding out that Niall’s family owned a record store in the town just outside of campus was arguably the best thing that happened to Harry last semester. He’d walked into town one Friday afternoon after his last lecture, snorted to himself when he saw the name, and stopped short to gape once he was in the doorway and saw how beautiful the eclectic little shop was, with CD stacks sectioned off with names like _You’ve Been Crying All Day, Haven’t You_ and _Secret Indie Music, Shh!_

He’d been stirred by a sudden voice calling out to him, “What’s playing on those headphones, lad?”

 

Not quite sure if it was a leading question, Harry replied, “Erm, ‘Fight To Keep’ by Run River North?”

 

“Never heard of them, excellent!” the man beamed. “Now then, what’s your guilty pleasure band?”

 

At that Harry had to hide the grin that promised to erupt across his face, and instead his expression landed on somewhat of a frog face as he said, “Modern day, I quite like Little Mix, but there will always be a shrine to Madonna in my heart.”

 

The man, laughing, came out from behind the counter, extending a hand. As Harry went to shake, the other man said, “Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but you’re Harry right?” Harry nodded his assent, and the man continued, “M’ Greg Horan, I think you know my younger brother. Any friend of Niall’s has got the craic, and he’s told me enough about the wonderful Harry Styles to know you’d be a perfect addition to our little business. If you’re interested, you’re hired.”

 

Harry started his first shift the next day.

 

Half a year later, and Harry now in his second year of uni, Craic & Shake is his escape from the rest of his major and their obsessive study habits. When he goes to work each afternoon he can do his Probability and Stats homework without worrying if his genius friend Ed has already finished the work through the next two weeks, or who got higher marks in Physics last year.

 

Unfortunately, Harry has seven and a half hours to go before he is due at work, and is instead stuck trudging to class, fumbling with his iPod as he tries to go through the menus to get to a Sam Smith track while still keeping his iPod dry. Somehow before he finds the song he’s looking for, Harry’s clumsy bear paws miss and hit shuffle, and before he can even feel disgruntled, a song so iconic starts Harry is not only very, very gruntled, but skipping a little, singing, and thinking the rest of the day might not be so bad after all.

 

_I made it through the wilderness, somehow I made it through…_

 

It’s a Madonna day, then. Somehow his girl always comes through for him when he needs it most, Harry thinks to himself. His apologies to Alisa Xayalith, but Harry is going to being neither Naked nor Famous today. Today, Harry is Like a Virgin, and a Material Girl, and nothing can go wrong.

 

Work is quiet as usual when he clocks in at 3:30. The sky had cleared sometime during his last lab before he was done for the day, so the walk into town is nothing short of perfect, Ms. Ciccone vogueing in his ear. Harry plugs his iPod in to the speaker system of the store and queues an old summer playlist, inspired by the sun and him never actually getting around to making a new one.

 

The sound of Givers fills the room, and he pulls out his Stats book, kicking up his feet to rest on the counter. Thirty minutes pass with only Greg stopping in to let Harry know he is taking Niall to a meeting with a supplier and that he’s manning the ship without a first mate for the afternoon. Greg is nothing if not illustrative. Another twenty or so minutes pass before the bell above the door is ringing to let him know a customer is coming in. Hardly roused, Harry calls out the standard, “Good afternoon, what’s the craic?”

 

He’s greeted with a snort. “’M looking for music, innit?” responds a voice that pierces through the otherwise quiet of the shop, high and lilting and utterly intriguing. Almost taken aback, Harry jolts up from the Stats problem he’s working on and sees a man, a little shorter than Harry is, he thinks, ambling into the aisle that proclaims _Suitable for Beach Days and Getting High_.

 

“Well, could I help you find anything?” Harry asks, still addressing the back of the man’s head, which is mussed so adorably Harry is already unintentionally imagining what the fringe in front probably looks like.

 

Finally the new customer turns around, saying, “I think I’m good, thanks,” but Harry is too shell shocked to adequately reply. The man is _beautiful_. He has sharp features that still somehow relay an underlying kindness, his scruff is in the magical middle ground between just trimmed and too grown out, and his eyes are so blue they’ve left Harry a wilting mess behind the counter.

 

Aside from a small smirk that Harry isn’t sure he didn’t imagine, the man treats Harry’s lack of response, and tact, for that matter, as a signal that the short-lived exchange has finished.  The new customer returns to browsing the stacks. Harry, meanwhile, is kicking himself for letting the conversation end at all, because there are about a thousand more things he would like to have a conversation with him about, like what reality shows he watches, and if he thinks the deep ocean or space is scarier, or if he, like, spits. Harry hates that. But truth be told, he really, really doesn’t think the man does.

 

Shaking himself a bit, he tries to go back to his homework and finish the problem he’d abandoned. He determines which statistical test he needs to apply to solve it, and feels like there might be some progress, distracting stranger and all. Harry reaches the last problem and almost gets to finally complete the assignment, when suddenly there’s a shadow falling across the page and he hears a voice begin to read, “Find the area under the standard normal curve between z= -0.46 and z= 2.21 … oh my god, what are you reading, you madman.”

 

Harry looks up to see the beautiful man, as he’s dubbed him in his head, leaning casually against the counter, staring up at him through thick eyelashes and an expression that reads slightly of disgust. Stammering, he says, “It’s my Stats homework, but this one just takes a simple definite integral.”

 

“Mate, I never made it past algebra, none of what you just said is simple.”

 

Harry smiles at that, but he feels it falter from a flurry of nervous excitement. Harry can’t even explain it to himself, but there’s something about the man that he finds so endearing, and he’s terrified to say the wrong thing. He needs time to turn this into something, because he has a little voice telling him it might not be too much to ask for something great. After a moment he settles on a response, and softly says, “Something tells me that whatever it is you do, you’re really, really good at it.”

 

“Whatever it is, eh?” says the man, his countenance riddled with emotion Harry can’t quite read. If Harry had to guess, he’d say the beautiful man almost looks pleased.

 

“Whatever it is.”

 

“You’re right in that there’s no math involved, that’s for sure. What is it that you do that you’re solving problems like that in a record store?”

 

“My best mate’s brother owns this place and I still work here because I get to pick the music and do my homework, honestly. But to answer your other question, I’m studying Industrial Engineering at uni,” supplies Harry, his tone elevated slightly at the end, turning the statement into an uncertain question of his own.

 

“And what in the hell does that entail - ” the beautiful man says, peering in to read his name tag, before he looks up right into his eyes and finishes, “Harry?”

 

Still nervous, but always happy to talk about his chosen career path, Harry answers, “Well, I guess the standard answer would be that it’s kind of like the engineering of people? Like, engineers figure out systems, right, and the way to make them run best. Industrial engineers figure out what happens to a system where there’s a ton of people involved, and then we figure out the problems that could happen with that and along with everything else, make it run best.”

 

Harry pauses to see if the man is still with him, because he’s lost people at this point in the spiel before. He’s surprised to see a look of intrigue rather than a blank or clouded expression, like the ones he’s come to expect.

 

“What does that have to do with you then, Curly?” asks the man, and Harry preens at the quick nickname. “You don’t strike me as the average engineering type, no offense.”

 

“Absolutely none taken, mate. And as for what I like about it…”

 

Harry pauses, collecting himself and thinking with a hum at how to answer. No one, aside from his advisors and peers, has ever asked how Harry connects to such a seemingly nerdy, oddball field. Glancing quickly around the shop to ensure that it is still empty save for the two of them, Harry responds, undeniably pleased, “Stadiums.”

 

“Stadiums?”

 

“Mate, do you even know what it takes to build, let alone run a place like Wembley, or Madison Square Garden? It’s bloody brilliant. Of course someone can plan a building, optimize the materials, and rig up things like electricity and plumbing correctly, but it all means nothing if it can’t house thousands of people. Just – imagine emergency exits. If a venue fits 50,000 patrons, and there’s a fire in one of the sections, you not only have to get all of those people out but evacuate every single other person in a way that puts everybody in the least amount of danger. That’s where someone like me comes in, that’s what I want to do for the rest of my life. I want to, like, plan concert venue exit strategies and build new places so good that they won’t even _need_ my emergency exit strategies, and then work my way up to football stadiums or something of that nature.”

 

The man looks clearly incredulous, slightly awed, and like he definitely can’t decide what part of Harry’s ramblings about _evacuation plans_ , for Christ’s sake, should be addressed first. A few more seconds of internal debate passes before he settles on, “Football stadiums?”

 

“I know right, I work in a record store and study engineering. I loved footie as a kid though, used to follow the premier league religiously, but I’ve stopped being involved really since I needed to focus on passing A levels and all that other nonsense.”

 

“Have you ever played yourself, then, Harry?” asks the man, a glint in his eyes hinting that there is more to the question than Harry can infer.

 

“Erm, not really,” admits Harry. “With my knowledge and understanding in the football game, I feel like I should be a lot better at football.”

 

That earns Harry a delighted little giggle, and yeah, okay, he is definitely going to be replaying the sound in his head forever. Up until now, the beautiful stranger has regarded his ramblings with kind eyes but only smirks and half-smiles. Now, he is being graced with the most beautiful grin he’s ever seen in his nineteen years, and Harry finds he is a little breathless.

 

“Maybe you could come and play with me some time,” suggests the man, laughter still in his voice.

 

“You’ve got to be joking,” Harry deadpans morbidly. “Even if you were some football legend I’d still be hopeless. I’ve been told that I am particularly awful.”

 

“I think I could surprise you, teach you one or two things about the game myself,” he says with a smile.

 

Right at that moment the man’s mobile rings, and he excuses himself, stepping away from the counter a few paces to take the call. Harry is left to his whirring thoughts, his brain an utter mess of trying to figure out if they were flirting or not, and the weight of the realization that if the man actually asked him out to play footie with him Harry would _agree_ , particularly awful playing or not.

 

Harry’s still lost in thought and secretly picking out the color of their first child’s bedroom when the man ends his quick conversation and steps back up to his previous position by Harry and the register.

 

“I’ve got to run,” the man says, “but me and my teammates do need some new pump up music,” and places the disc he’s selected on the counter. Picking it up, Harry reads _Madonna: The Immaculate Collection_ and nearly drops the CD. He barely keeps his wits about him through the process of ringing it up and chokes out, “Good choice.”

 

That earns him another laugh. “Right?” he says, “I’ll be damned if I can be friends with anyone who doesn’t think she’s the true queen of pop.”

 

Swooning, Harry bags the album and hands it to the man, and quietly says, “That’ll be five pounds.”  They make eye contact when he hands the note to Harry, and Harry gets chills the way he never does when meeting someone for the first time. Between the scruff and the Madonna and those eyes, Harry isn’t quite sure what he is feeling, but it definitely falls between kindergarten crush and soul-sweeping, earth-changing love.

 

The man gathers his wallet and phone and Harry can only stare in a way that he hopes comes across as alluring and attractive, but is most likely gearing towards sad, available homosexual. It isn’t until the chiming of the bell above the door and the man calling out, “Lovely meeting you, yeah?” stirs Harry from his stupor that he realizes he never even asked for the man’s name.

 

The final couple hours of Harry’s shift and his walk back to campus fly, passing in a haze of fitful regret. Knowing his luck, Harry is never going to see the beautiful stranger again, and he’s far more upset than is justifiable for no more than twenty minutes of interaction. Even Liam notices something is off once he’s in their room, and offers support in his own Liam way. That is, it comes in the form of a firm shoulder grip and a bottle of blue Gatorade, Harry’s favorite, tossed onto his bed, but he’s always been an appreciative person. Rooming with a Sports Management major has its perks, Harry decides, and shoots Liam a grateful smile.

 

He throws his bag haphazardly onto his bed, pulling out his binder from Intro to Materials Science and falls into his desk chair, opening to his notes from class he’s going to need to finish the online homework. MatSci is simple enough for Harry, and though he rarely admits it, it’s the class he generally puts off to finish in his half hour break between lectures. It’s boring as all hell but just the right amount of occupying that tonight, Harry sets to it first, if only to push the thought of the beautiful man out of his mind and instead fill the space with polymers, ceramics, and composites.

 

He puts his ear buds in, finally listens to the new The Naked and Famous album, and works, only pausing to add tracks to the playlist for his shift tomorrow. After that comes his reading for Modern Latin America, his final university requirement that falls outside of his major, and a class that frankly sounded much better in the course guide. Harry gets through the same Fall Out Boy album twice before he gives up on the possibility of retaining anything more about nation-states. Liam’s already in bed playing 2048 on his phone and Harry crashes as well, too tired to even scroll through Instagram. The last thought he remembers before falling asleep is one of bright, blue eyes.

 

***

 

Harry’s Tuesdays are technically his easiest day, but once his sole morning lecture is over he heads into town and grabs lunch before eight hours at Craic & Shake. In his experience, the longer shifts never fail to pass just as quickly as a two hour pick up, and in the earlier hours Harry usually plays albums full through rather than bother making a mix for himself and maybe one straggling customer. Niall is scheduled to come in for the second half of the shift later in the night, and any time Niall is working is Harry’s favorite time to be working. Greg could ask him to come in at five in the morning and he’d just ask if Niall was going to be there too. Today, Harry just hopes the anticipation and some more Stats will stop him from moping over the beautiful man, as any attempt Harry made to forget him was futile.

 

He sets the first Two Door Cinema Club album up with the sound system and queues some Grouplove. Harry goes into the back room for a minute to find the stash of local takeout menus that is Niall’s baby, and is mulling over whether he wants Thai or Italian when he hears singing, coming from the storefront.  A high voice rings out, singing along to ‘Cigarettes in the Theatre’, and Harry feels a twinge in his sternum at the hesitant familiarity of the sound. The singing continues as Harry pops his head outside the doorway of the back office, and he can’t see who it is behind all of the stacks, but the voice is clearer and his heart begins to pound a little more hopefully.

 

_“Just keep talking now, tell me your favorite things, tell me your favorite things…”_

 

Stepping out into the store, Harry stalks between the CD shelves, ears alert and following the mystery singer. His nerves grow with every pace; afraid to let his heart grow confident in whom he thinks the visitor is. Suddenly, he turns a corner and is face to face with the beautiful man from the day before, who stills in the middle of a lyric, face lighting up instantly.

 

“There you are, Harry!” he exclaims gleefully, and to Harry’s shock, has both remembered his name and looks genuinely relieved to see the boy. “I came round a little earlier than I did yesterday so I was worried I would miss you. But here you are! And here I am.  I’ve returned for musical recommendations from my local expert. Bestow your wisdom upon me, take me on a journey.”

 

“Greetings loved ones,” Harry whispers in his best Snoop Dogg voice, and a peal of laughter escapes from the other man.

 

“What type of thing are you looking for today, then?” Harry asks, hopefully masking the excited tremor in his voice.

 

“Workout music? Anything upbeat, genre doesn’t matter, really.” Harry nods, and leads the man to Greg’s eclectic exercise music shelf.

 

“What’s your name?” asks Harry somewhat abruptly as they’re walking. Harry figures if the man is being rather presumptuous with their acquaintanceship, he might as well take the plunge.

 

“Forward lad, aren’t you,” says the man with a wink. “It’s Louis.”

 

Louis. Harry likes that name. It sounds French, which is a turn on, though he wouldn’t tell Louis as much.

 

“I like that name. It makes you sound like a French prince.”

 

“I hate to disappoint you Curly, but I’m the Fresh Prince more like. You know, fighting stereotypes and adversaries with my cunning wit and hip hop music.”

 

Harry laughs and replies, “I’ve got just the thing then, Your Highness.”

 

He pulls a DJ Jazzy Jeff and The Fresh Prince album, _A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out,_ and a recent Neon Jungle EP, and turns to offer Louis the selection. “If I had to make a workout playlist there’d be at least a few songs from each of these.”

 

“Who even puts together these categories? And how did you know I love Panic! At The Disco?” says Louis, shaking his head in amazement before he looks at Harry.

 

“Greg – that’s my boss, he owns this place – has this idea that music shouldn’t be categorized by genres so much as moods, or like, uses I guess. Like, more people listen to music when they feel a certain way or are doing a specific activity rather than going by any particular genre. As for what I picked for you, you said hip hop, which is close enough to trip-hop cabaret dance punk, so I just went for it.”

 

Louis looks duly impressed. “With that kind of customer service I’d be a bit of an ass not to get all three then, isn’t that right, Harry.”

 

They start to head back to the register and Harry says, “Here at Craic & Shake we are not in the habit of calling the customers asses, Louis.”

 

“Oh don’t be a shit, Harold.”

 

“You know Harry isn’t short for anything, right? It’s just my name.”

 

They’ve made it back to the register, both still on the customer side, and Louis leans against the counter, raising an eyebrow, and cocking a hip. “I’m sorry love, but I don’t really care.”

 

Harry can’t help but smile at that, reveling in their banter. He crosses over to the other side of the counter, and feeling more confident in what he wants to ask the man. He averts his eyes to the CDs as he rings up the three discs and asks, “Louis, do you have anywhere you need to be in the immediate future?”

 

“I’m free as a bird, Curly.”

 

“In that case,” he says, “do you prefer Italian or Thai?”

 

In the half hour it takes for their take out to arrive, Harry learns that Louis is from Doncaster originally, he’s 27, has an absurd number of siblings, and he loves them as fiercely as Harry does his own family. Louis asks him about university and his friends, Niall in particular, and says he thinks he’d get along really well with his best friend Zayn. Harry talks about the time at his sixteenth birthday party that an uninvited guest showed up and ended up using his shower, and how his mother didn’t talk to him for two days afterward. They argue over the best episode of _Spongebob Squarepants_ (Louis thinks that the Texas episode is better than the Krusty Krab Training Manual and Harry has no idea why he likes him, really.) When the food gets there Louis steals forkfuls of Harry’s pad thai, they split a soda between them, and Harry isn’t even grossed out when Louis sprays a little because he’s talking so excitedly with his mouthful.

 

It’s all Harry can do not to glare at anyone who comes in when he’s talking to Louis, but thankfully none of them actually buy anything – and if that makes him a bad employee, then, well. Niall’s on his side.

 

Eventually Louis does actually have responsibilities to attend to, and leaves the shop with three spring rolls and a happy wave. He’s left without the promise of another visit but with the way they’ve hit it off, Harry thinks he’s right in that he’ll be seeing Louis soon. There’s still a bit until Niall is set to show up, and Harry uses the time to start on a new display, with no title, but just the image of the Heart Eyes, Motherfucker meme that he can’t help but find hysterical. He wanders the store, humming that one song by The Cranberries to himself, and pulling albums from the shelves that make him see Louis’ face. Once he’s satisfied with his array of choices he settles himself in front of the still empty display shelf, deciding whether he should arrange it alphabetically or by how the music depicts the progression of a relationship. The answer is clear to him at least when he groups Atlas Genius and Empires together. Harry’s pondering what Louis’ inner stripper song is as he shelves Emeli Sande and reckons his chances of getting him into bed for the first time to Madonna when Niall bolts in shouting about something Harry can’t focus on because he is, rightfully, shitting his pants.

 

“Oi, mate, what’s got you in a right state?” Niall says joyously, his normal tone projecting at a magnificent volume like only the Irish can, and pretending that him scaring the crap out of Harry isn’t a regular occurrence.

 

Harry glares, forcefully, he hopes, but Niall just laughs and takes the last spring roll that wasn’t claimed by Louis. Niall hijacks the AUX cord and puts in some dubstep remix he’s been trying to force on Harry, and yep, Harry’s Louis stupor has been disrupted. He has to do actual work now. Bummer.

 

He finishes the display and spends a little while trying to help a mother figure out a good gift for her daughter’s sixteenth birthday, only going off of the information that the music the girl likes is “breaking my heart, really.” Harry eventually narrows that down to mean that her daughter listens to the likes of Bring Me The Horizon and Pierce the Veil and finds the woman a discounted copy of _Collide With The Sky_. When she leaves the store they both breathe sighs of relief – granted, for very different reasons - and Harry settles behind the counter again with more Stats problems. Niall, being the beautiful specimen of a human that he is, lets Harry have his lazy day, and just queues their 80s music playlist and handles all the customers. Harry loves his friends. He’ll keep them.

 

***

 

It’s late on Wednesday when Louis barges in, hair matted like he’d been sweating, and Harry thanks any and all divine beings for blessing him with such an attractive, physically active man. Louis stops momentarily at the £1 clearance bin, and blindly roots around inside before pulling out a disc and making the last few paces to meet Harry at the counter.

 

Without so much as a glance to his selection, Louis throws the CD in front of Harry. “I need another. Mine broke.”

 

Stifling laughter, Harry picks it up, inquiring, “You mean to tell me that your copy of Metallica’s _Master of Puppets_ , that you already own, is so loved and well-worn that you need a replacement.”

 

“Shut up Harold,” he says, and unceremoniously rounds the corner behind the counter and shoves Harry off the stool, settling in in some sort of bizarre realization of his manifest destiny. Louis spends the rest of Harry’s shift entertaining the boy and misdirecting the late night customers between the stacks. When he tires of that, Louis starts completing what he calls home improvements, like erasing every other letter on the big chalkboard of new arrivals and moving all of the rap he can find into the _Natural Nap Aides_ section, with an indignant, “Well _I_ fall asleep to Kanye West, Harold!” Harry can’t bring himself to reprimand him, and even if he tried, his ebullient laughter would give him away pretty quickly.

 

He feels like there’s definitely course work he could be doing, but he’s busy watching Louis be, so Harry puts it out of his mind, for now. Which is what he tells himself, at least, but if Harry’s being honest the past three days have been one extended for now, and he’s not yet ready to confront any potential effects on his education. So he’s just going to focus on Louis, for now, until he has to get back to his dorm, where he’ll daydream about Louis. For now. God, he’s pathetic.

 

***

 

Thursday starts like any other week; Harry sleeps in a bit on this blessed day when he has no early classes, listens to new music on the way to breakfast with Niall and Ed, goes to his Stats discussion, nudges Niall to keep him awake during said Stats discussion, has a mini Madonna dance party in line at the dining hall. He deflects Niall’s jabs and Ed’s questions about Louis, still not sure if he can adequately answer any of them. What is he doing? Pining, really. How does he feel about him? He doesn’t even know himself.

 

Apart from that, when Harry is seated with his lunch the day has been almost blissfully average. Harry scrolls through his iPod one-handed, the other preoccupied with his fries, and starts to make what he hopes is a study conducive playlist for work later, when Ed asks him about the awful history class he has at four, which he usually complains about very liberally during their lunches. Unfortunately, it’s also the first time he’s thought about that class since doing his reading Monday night. Harry drops his iPod directly into his ketchup and swears loudly, not only rousing Niall from the religious experience he’s having with a quesadilla but the girls sitting two tables over and the cafeteria worker that picked the wrong moment to wipe down the other half of their own table.

 

“The fuck, mate,” Ed asks, tone caught between confusion and concern.

 

“Modern Latin America,” says Harry, staring off past Ed’s shoulder and into the depths of the universe and all things unholy.

 

“Use your words, Harry.” Niall prods him in the side.

 

He turns to Niall, and announces ominously, “Niall, tell Greg I’m not coming in today, because I’ve got ten pages to write before eleven tonight.”

 

“Fucking shit, Harry, all last week you couldn’t stop complaining about that paper, how did you forget to do it?”

 

“I was just caught up in other things, Ni – “

 

“Meaning Louis,” he cuts Harry off, him and Ed smirking at each other.

 

Harry’s questioning why he even has friends. Must be Thursday.

 

“Come on, I swear to god I have to get back to the dorm _five minutes ago_ , will you please just cover for me?”

 

“Yeah, I’ve got it. Go forth, Che Guevara.”

 

“Shut UP, Niall.”

 

***

 

Harry’s back in his dorm, and he’s got this. He has ten hours to cover every nineteenth century event that led to the formation of Bolivia. He’s got this. It’s fine.

 

It’s not fine.

 

Liam comes in around four, as Harry mutters about something that sounds like “Chucky-sacky”, and Liam asks no questions. He’d offer to help, be he knows fuck all about geography, frankly, and that’s clearly what Harry’s going on about. Liam knows a map when he sees one.

 

Liam claps Harry on the back on his way out a few minutes later, and elicits a soft whisper of, “I hate the Spanish.” He nods like he understands, and heads out to play basketball. Liam loves Sports Management.

 

By nine, Harry’s got seven pages done, and the coherency of all seven is questionable. His mind is swimming with dates of revolutions and the names of Bolivian leaders he’ll never see again. Liam is back in the room and actually reading for a class, and Harry can’t even revel in it properly. The first time he actually looks away from his laptop screen is when Niall bursts through the open door to their dorm, tackles Harry to the ground and shakes him by the shoulder, screaming, “You’re never gonna believe who I just met Harry, legend!”

 

“What I don’t believe, Niall,” says Harry, a little proud of the snark he manages, “is that you’re taking away from the minimal time I have left to finish this pain in my arse. Do you know how many revolutionaries there are in Bolivia?  A lot of fucking revolutionaries, Ni.”

 

“Oi, forget about that, just thank me for giving your brain a legitimate break, yeah? Guess who was at the shop tonight?”

 

Harry, knowing he wont be able to get back to work until Niall is appeased, gives in and signals Niall with his hand to keep going.

 

“My favorite fuckin’ player from Manchester United, that’s who!”

 

Liam shoots up from his textbook, and flips his body to face the two boys still on the floor. “You can’t be talking about The Tommo, are you?”

 

“Tomlinson himself!”

 

Liam springs off of his bed and starts running laps around the room, beside himself. Harry hears an odd whooping noise that he files away to use as blackmail the next time Liam brings a girl over without warning. His plans of redemption are interrupted, however, when Liam joins the pile up on the ground at Harry’s desk by throwing himself onto Niall, and consequentially, Harry. _Why_ does he keep his friends.

 

Liam grabs the back of Niall’s neck and turns the boy towards him, and says, “Please tell me you talked to him. Autograph. Photo. Semen sample. _Anything._ ”

 

Niall’s shoulders sag, and he says, “Don’t think I don’t hate myself, too.”

 

“Nothing? Did you really get no proof that Man U’s best player was in your store?”

 

“I’m sorry, okay! I was already talking to a customer and he didn’t stay long. When I saw him it seemed like he was looking for something, and by the time I was done with the sale he’d left.”

 

“While this is all very interesting,” adds Harry, “it is now 9:15 and I have another three pages to bullshit, lads.”

 

Sheepish, the other two actually do extricate themselves from Harry, while Liam is still grumbling yet offering condolences to Niall. Harry would undoubtedly be more interested in the whole ordeal if he wasn’t still trying to finish his paper, and even though he’s curious about the potentially rich and famous football player at Craic & Shake earlier, it’s not enough to warrant a a quick google search. He is at the cornerstone of Bolivian independence, after all.

 

***

 

Fridays are usually Harry’s day off, because the engineering students party too, thank you, which lets Greg give both him and Niall a break and local teenagers their first part time job. Tonight, though, he agrees to come in for a couple of hours to supervise a new hire, and not to see if Louis will come by again, as far as Greg knows.

 

For Harry, Fridays are also usually laundry day, because if there’s one thing he learned in his first year it’s that the laundry rooms are positively abandoned in the wake of most students’ desires to go out. If he gets most of his music listening done walking to class, his second most productive time is when he’s folding clothes. He’s so caught up in his elaborate musical theatre laundry production that he doesn’t see that it’s twenty minutes after he promised Greg he’d be in until he’s back in his dorm. The laundry, once having been neatly folded, is now unceremoniously spewed all over Harry’s side of the room, and he tears off his gym shorts and tries to simultaneously tug on a pair of skinnies and find his phone and keys.

 

If Harry was late when he was back on campus, he is _really fucking late_ by the time he’s sprinting through the door of the shop, stopping short to support himself against the doorframe. If he wheezes a bit, no one needs to know. He’s a lover, not a runner, or something.

 

“Where the hell have you been, Curly?” he hears, and it sounds a lot like…

 

“Louis? What are you doing here?” asks Harry, tone colored with surprise.

 

The other man walks over to the door from where he was waiting behind the counter, which Harry will have to have a talk with the new person about, seriously, and leans against the wall next to Harry.

 

“I’ve been waiting here for ages, that’s what,” Louis says, and a blush spreads across Harry’s cheeks.

 

Harry looks speculatively at Louis. “I was caught up doing chores and ended up being late coming here, is all.” He thinks a moment more and asks, “I wasn’t even on schedule to work today though, why did you come in?”

 

Louis mutters something incomprehensible about the state of his empty shelves, and radio these days, and Harry excitedly interrupts, “ _Lewis_ , did you just want to see me?”

 

Louis straight up guffaws with indignation and whips out another denial that doesn’t actually contain the word ‘no’ and Harry pesters on, “It’s true, I knew it! Old fart like you, Lou, wasting the one of the last Friday nights of your waning youth sitting in a record store on the off chance your favorite employee comes in, sulking for hours while you’re pretending to look at the music –“

 

He’s cut off by Louis clamping his hand over Harry’s mouth and absolutely launching himself on him, beating at his back with his other hand in a fist and shouting, “How very dare you!”

 

Harry laughs riotously even through the makeshift muzzle, reveling in how tactile Louis is being. Spontaneously, he swoops under Louis and easily lifts him up, arms cradled tightly around his arse, and the other man cries out in shock but doesn’t release Harry’s mouth, and just wraps his legs around him. An intense stare down follows, broken only when Harry darts his tongue out to lick at Louis’ palm. Louis absolutely _squeals_ and starts to writhe and kick at him. Harry is laughing so hard that Louis’ hand finally falls away from the sheer force of it, but Louis is resolutely refusing to cede his façade of frustration.

 

“Stop dimpling at me,” he grunts. “You know I can’t stay mad at you when you do that.” At that, Harry only grins harder.

 

“That’s what I’ve been counting on.”

 

Emboldened by their prolonged closeness and Louis still in his arms, when Harry is finally able to breathe and collect his wits about him, he looks into Louis’ shining blue eyes. “Go to dinner with me tomorrow,” he says, no question in his voice.

 

He watches Louis’ expression contort quickly, and before he can decipher any of it Louis quietly says, “I can’t do that, Harry.”

 

Dramatic as it is, Harry feels himself crumbling a bit – his confidence, his resolve. He had been so sure that Louis would return how he felt, and now the humiliation of rejection is weighing down on him. It’s all he can do not to drop him outright, but instead seats him on the counter and withdraws his arms, folding them around himself so as not to panic. Harry has no idea how he got it all so wrong.

 

He steps back even more and faces away from the man. “I understand. I’m sure there really are better things you need to do than hang out with some uni student, so you should go do them.” He can’t control the tremor in his voice, but he just hopes Louis doesn’t notice it.

 

“Haz-” he hears Louis call out, and the sound of him hopping off the counter, but he turns and shakes his head as Louis tries to come close to him. “You should go,” he repeats with finality.

 

Louis goes. The bell rings in Harry’s head much for much longer than it does in the store.

 

***

 

Saturday comes. Harry sleeps in. Niall comes in and tries to convince Harry to go to breakfast and Harry ignores him. By one, Harry actually gets out of bed, and takes a shower the length of his “The Sads” playlist. He makes some Easy Mac and crawls back under the covers, and starts a movie on his laptop. Niall texts him about a study group that’s happening in the lounge of his building and even though Harry knows it would probably be a good way to get his mind off of things, it’s still the last thing he wants to do. His movie finished, and a bag of chips to boot, Harry starts _Love, Actually_ , holiday season be damned. Liam comes back from the gym with Harry’s favorite pineapple shake in hand, and any doubts he’s had about Liam’s quality of character have absolutely vanished.

 

He smiles for the first time that day – significant, as not even Hugh Grant had elicited a Styles smile.

 

 “Liam?”

 

“Yeah, mate?” he says, and leans against Harry’s bed.

 

Suddenly he’s being hugged, smoothie standing precariously up against a pillow, and over Liam’s quiet _oof_ Harry murmurs, “I’m so glad we’re roommates. Never leave me,” into Liam’s neck.

 

“I’ll be here until at least May,” Liam offers, always the pragmatist.

 

Harry, still hugging his friend, says, “How are you such a good hugger, Liam Payne? Where do your muscles go?”

 

Realizing Harry’s having a moment and it might not end for quite some time, Liam gently eases Harry’s grip off of him, places the smoothie in the boy’s hand, and climbs in bed with him. He takes Harry’s phone and calls Niall to get some Chinese food and get his ass over to them, and within the hour, Harry has two friends on either side of him, an order of boneless spare ribs, and they’re watching High School Musical, like a beautiful friendship burrito. And if Harry can’t have the boyfriend he wants, he’s sure as hell keeping his burrito.

 

By Sunday, the previous night’s HSM marathon has Harry feeling more like himself and less of a moping mess. So, Louis doesn’t want him. He’s got a lot of other things going for him that don’t have anything to do with beautiful, older men. _God Styles, unhelpful._ Regardless, none of those other things will do him any good if he doesn’t actually do his course work, so Harry texts Ed and they spend the day in the dorm, getting ahead on homework and sharing music. He still forces his friends to get food for him as he doesn’t actually want to brace the outdoors but they comply and don’t even grumble too much. After Harry calls his mom and talks about everything but Louis, he finally feels like everything will be okay.

 

***

Come Monday, he has responsibilities he can’t actually ignore. Statics lecture is still at 8am, he still has an early afternoon lab, and he still has a shift at Craic & Shake. Harry wakes up, sprints, pees, brushes his teeth, sprints, gets dressed, and unplugs his charging iPod, just like every other morning, but today, he adds a few minutes on to getting dressed to don his ladykiller look and make himself feel a bit better. Though, it serves as more of a gentleman-killer, but either way, he’s got it.

 

Buttoning up his second flannel barely past his belly button, Harry takes a final look at himself before pulling on his favorite worn in boots and quietly heading out, so as not to wake Liam. He taps ‘Lucky Star’ on his iPod and heads out, letting Madonna set the tone for hopefully another extraordinharry week. Heh. He’s so clever.

 

***

Niall and Harry are in the back corner of Craic & Shake, arguing over whether they should combine stacks to make room for a listening corner or leave it the way it is. Harry is passionately gesticulating the outline of a recliner when Niall’s eyes go wide and he falls silent.

 

“Holy god, Harry, he’s here again!”

 

Sighing impatiently, Harry drops his arms from the edges of the imaginary chair and asks, “Who, Ni?”

 

“Louis Tomlinson, that’s who!”

 

Wait. The footballer’s name is Louis?

 

Fully alert, he whips his head around the breadth of the shop like a prairie dog out of its burrow, and sees a head of brown hair, much like the first time he ever did.

 

Louis, _his_ Louis, is walking towards them, and Niall looks about ready to piss himself. He’s pacing side to side, wondering out loud if he should just ask for an autograph outright or establish some rapport first, and Harry stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “Let me handle this one, mate,” he says grimly.

 

Louis reaches them and Harry puts up a finger to silence him before he can begin to say anything.

 

“Do you two know each other?” Niall asks, but neither of the other two pays him any mind.

 

“Louis,” starts Harry, “Who are you?”

 

The man looks directly into Harry’s eyes and says, “My name is Louis Tomlinson, I’m twenty seven years old, and I play football for Manchester United.”

 

Niall whoops, genuinely whoops, and jumps on Harry, shouting right into his ear, “No way, mate, _this_ is your Louis?”

 

Louis smirks at his use of your, and waits expectantly for Harry to react, as the boy hasn’t yet moved.

 

When Harry reacts, he reacts like a gummy bear in potassium chlorate.

 

“What the fuck, Lou!” he erupts, throwing Niall off his back and moving closer to the other man. “How could you not tell me?”

 

“Harold, you knew I played football.”

 

“Not for Man United, I didn’t!” Harry processes everything that just transpired, and still can’t figure out how through everything they learned about each other in the past week, his Louis being a famous athlete wasn’t one of them.

 

“Explain to me how during the hours we spent together last week not once did you think to mention that you were a famous footballer, Louis?”

 

Louis now looks more nervous than amused, and answers, “I thought you knew, Haz! I’ve talked about teammates, and having to travel for work, anyone else would’ve caught on. You’d said you loved footie, and I just thought you were being kind in not treating me special because of who I am. That’s why I didn’t make sure you knew.”

 

Out of everything Louis says, Harry only hears what makes him feel something like whiplash.

 

“How could you think I wasn’t treating you special, Lou,” says Harry, voice dropped to a whisper.

 

“You know that’s not what I meant,” he protests, but Harry doesn’t let him finish.

 

“How could you think that everything we’ve done together or talked about wasn’t something special? I even asked you on a date, for Christ’s sake, and you didn’t even have the courtesy to say no, just said you can’t and practically ran away.”

 

“You told me to go, Haz!”

 

“And you shouldn’t have listened. Obviously I didn’t want you to go anywhere. I was just hurt by how clearly you were rejecting me!”

 

“It wasn’t a rejection, love, I was going to be away! I wanted to tell you but you kicked me out before I could.”

 

“How do I know that’s not just an excuse?” Harry counters. “That away isn’t code for off gallivanting with other beautiful people?”

 

Louis approaches his cautiously, putting his hands on Harry’s shoulders once he’s close enough. “I really was love. I had a match against Chelsea this past weekend. Besides, you’re the one that accused me of wasting my Friday nights on you.”

 

Unappeased, Harry pulls his last card. “That doesn’t mean you want to go out with me, or that you’re not straight.”

 

“Harry,” Louis intones emphatically, “literally everyone in the U.K. has known that I’m openly bisexual since 2011.”

 

“’Cept you, I guess,” supplies Niall.  


The small voice in Harry’s head that usually ruins things and makes his life needlessly complicated has nothing to say but a slight _oh,_ succinct and with the air of a noncommittal shrug. _Now_ his thoughts are being reasonable, great.

 

“Hey Harry, I hate to interrupt your soap opera moment, but the guy you’ve been obsessing over is a fuckin’ legend football player, so you should be like, a little more proper excited,” Niall contributes, like a comment on their yet to be existent furniture.

 

Louis giggles, Niall claps him on the back, over his pervious awe at his fame, and fully overshadowed by how stupid him and Harry are, god. At that Louis’ tension breaks and he’s uproariously laughing, and when Louis laughs, Harry laughs.

 

“Harold.”

 

“Yeah Louis?”

 

“Go on a date with me. A proper date where you dress up and I take you out and we talk like we don’t already know each other and make our waitress uncomfortable with our flirting. Then I walk you back to your dorm, my jacket around you, and I finally kiss you after making you wait.”

 

Harry swallows, says “You’re going to keep me waiting?” voice an octave lower.

 

Louis looks at him, scrunches his face. “Nah.”

 

His mouth is on Harry before he can even smile.

 

***

 

Harry finally gets Louis’ number, and he programs it in his phone _with_ his last name.

 

***

 

**Two Months Later**

 

Harry and Louis aren’t talking and it’s really, really not normal. In the almost two full months they’ve been officially dating they haven’t gone more than a few hours without at least a text exchanged, exceptions being when Louis is on the football pitch or when they’re sleeping. Though, Harry has been sleeping considerably less what with the end of the semester and the full time commitment of being boyfriends with Louis.

 

Which, granted, Harry is not doing the best job of right now but. He has his reasons. Unfortunately, the reasons aren’t masking the hollow in his stomach from not talking to Louis, and it’s just really, really not normal.

 

It’s just – for as long as they’ve been together, and as much as they learned about communication issues in their first week of knowing each other, Harry would think that he would have met Louis’ _best friend_ by now, or that he could figure out how to tell Lou that it bothers him.

 

And therein lies the problem – Zayn Malik, forward for Manchester United and object of Harry’s misplaced jealousy. Probably misplaced, anyway.

 

If he had met him, it would probably help every time he searched his boyfriend’s name and the same type of trash _Daily Mail_ or _The Sun_ article informed him that he wasn’t dating his boyfriend, actually, because he’s been seen cozying up to gorgeous teammate Zayn Malik, 26, look at that beautiful pair out together, we wonder what they’re getting up to later. Harry knows that Louis, open as he is, doesn’t like to talk about relationships so it doesn’t distract the public from how truly talented of a player he is. Harry honestly does understand, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting Louis to maybe, perhaps, deny a rumor for once in his life, and not just brush it off with another non sequitur. He complains to Niall about it but stops when Niall starts being reasonable about how much Louis likes him, and Harry goes back to moping in solitude. What it all comes down to is Harry is jealous and a little sad and wants Louis to know about it without him actually saying anything.

 

As it turns out, Louis does figure it out, or so it seems when Harry’s working at his desk a couple days later and Louis follows into their room nonchalantly after Liam, and Harry just gapes at him from where he’s seated.

 

“Sorry, mate,” says Liam. “He asked me to sign him in, and he looked a little like he would hurt me, so.”

 

Harry nods, still dumbfounded, and Louis says, “Up then, Haz, you’re coming with me.”

 

“What’s going on, Lou?” he asks, to no response, just Louis grabbing his coat for him and standing expectantly by the door.

 

Harry figures the fact that they have an issue at all is his own fault for not trusting Louis, so he goes with it.

 

“I’ll be back… later, I guess?” he calls to Liam, but Liam just nods, not looking too worried. It’s nice that one of them isn’t.

 

***

 

In another situation it’s possible that Harry might appreciate being blindfolded and with Louis, but right now with the dubious state of their relationship and him worrying about the whole Zayn thing, he’s just really, really nervous.

 

They’ve been driving now for a little over an hour, Harry thinks. As soon as they pulled onto the M1, Louis made him pull his head scarf over his eyes, ignoring his complaints of “Getting vertigo or something, _Louis!_ ” They’ve been mostly quiet the whole ride, but the silence is comfortable and a testament to how well they really do work with each other. Plus, Louis has been playing only mixes that Harry made for him the whole time, which does help settle Harry’s nerves. He wouldn’t be playing their songs if he was going to break up with him, right?

 

A little while later, the car slows to a stop, and Harry can hear the click of the key turning in the ignition and the roar of the engine cease. He makes to pull the makeshift blindfold off but Louis tuts and quickly grabs Harry’s wrist, pulling his hand down from by his face and laces their fingers. “Not quite yet, love, we’ve yet to get to the surprise of the evening.”

 

Suddenly, at the word surprise, Harry gets twice as anxious as he was when Louis first abducted him, but it feels more positive.

 

“Where am I, Lou?”

 

“Trust, Hazza.”

 

He feels the other man’s hand leave his and hears the driver side door open and shut, and only a few seconds pass until Louis reaches his side and leads him out. Their hands are joined again and they walk to whatever their destination might be.  Louis leads him through several sets of doors, they walk around what seems like part of a massive circle, and finally Louis comes to a stop, and Harry with him.

 

“You can take the scarf off now,” Louis says softly to Harry.

 

Harry pulls it off and has to blink to adjust but once he’s recovered quickly looks around in wonder. The place looks familiar, in the way something does when you’ve seen pictures, but never gone, like the Eiffel Tower, or –

 

“Louis.”

 

“Yes, Harold?”

 

“Did you bring me to an emergency exit in Wembley Stadium?”

 

“It appears I did, doesn’t it?”

 

Harry walks closer to his boyfriend and pulls him into a hug, murmuring into his ear, “I can’t believe you remembered.”

 

Louis pulls back to look at him. “Not like you’re important to me, or anything.”

 

He flushes, pleased, but feels like that’s not the whole reason Louis brought them. “Louis, why did you bring me here?”

 

“My career is coming to an end, Harry.” Louis stops him before he can protest and sing his praises, and continues, “Maybe not this year, or the year after, but I’m at the point in my career where my retirement is sooner rather than later. The fans and commentators, you even, you all can paint it however you’d like but opportunity, for me, is waning.” He pauses.

 

“But now, every time I run onto the field, no matter where I am, every time I see a place like this, it’s not my career I’m thinking of, it’s you, babe. I think of all the opportunity I have just by being with you. You’re young, Harry so you might not realize how serious I am about this, us – you’re it for me, really. I look out at the stands from the pitch before every game and I can hardly focus on the footie anymore. All I can feel, all I can think about is how proud of you I am, and how successful you’re going to be, and how nothing matters to me more than being able to experience that with you. You make me want to use words like intimacy and spouse. You are the first person I have ever known that I want to be more committed to than my sport. You make me so strong. If I have to take you to a stadium to show you how huge what I feel for you is, then that’s what I’ll do, every time.”

 

Harry barely has any time to recover from Louis’ giant gushing love speech, oh my _god_ , before Louis rests his forehead against Harry’s and says, “I know it hasn’t been that long, but I love you something stupid, so I’ll need to you stop being ridiculous about Zayn.”

 

Harry sputters, caught entirely unaware by the turn in conversation, and stammers out, “How… how did you know about that?”

 

“If you think Niall didn’t call me immediately after you brought up some outlandish nonsense about me dating Zayn then he deserves better friends,” smirks Louis.

 

“Then I guess it’s a good thing I couldn’t possibly have a better boyfriend,” Harry replies. “I love you too, you know. I think I have since you bought that first Madonna CD.”

 

“Would you say you’re… crazy for me?”

 

“Touch me once and you’ll know it’s true,” says Harry, with full solemnity.

 

Just as seriously, Louis says, “I never wanted anyone like this, it’s all brand new. You can feel it in my kiss…” He tapers off, accentuating the lyric by touching his lips to Harry’s with a kiss of his own.

 

Standing under the faint red glow of an emergency exit, kissing his boyfriend, Harry can’t help but think that falling for Louis was the best moment of temporary insanity he’s ever had.

 

 

 


End file.
